


cc's fun little writing sprints :)

by idontknowhowtoread (heatherpotts)



Category: Asagao Academy: Normal Boots Club, PBG Hardcore
Genre: Android AU, Body Horror, Guns, M/M, Minimally edited, Murder, Nightmares, a man who has Not been to medical school, bro theres just... a lot idk what to even tag anymore fdjhgfd, i am told that i am too powerful, none of these are connected do not be alarmed hdfhgjfsd, using this to project more also oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2020-10-25 16:55:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherpotts/pseuds/idontknowhowtoread
Summary: in which i take orders from writer-bot on discord





	1. my sole purpose

**Author's Note:**

> the goal for this was 700 words in 20 minutes and i didn't even get that djhgdf but i still like it!! here we got some spacebutter sadness less get it
> 
> prompt: [239] You discover that your partner is an AI-enabled humanoid whose characteristics have been selected by your parents.

"I've always loved you, Jeff."

It wasn't what Jeff wanted to hear; not at all. It didn't help this _ revelation _ in any capacity. It wasn't a lie, sure, but it didn't mean _ shit. _

There was a power switch on Austin's back. They were just lying down together, Jeff moved to hug him, grazed his hand over Austin's back, and found it.

Impulsively, he flicked it, and Austin… _ powered down, _ would be the correct phrase, wouldn't it?

For a moment, Jeff thought he'd killed him, somehow. But then he flicked it back on, and he saw the logo shine through his shirt, what seemed to be a pair of boots colored green, and the blue light that flickered in his eyes that went unblinking. For what had to have been only ten seconds, Austin just laid there, staring, glowing, booting up.

Then the lights died, and he said "Oh, hey Jeff!"

And so, hearing that Austin had always loved him wasn't a lie, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear in the slightest.

"It is my- My sole _ purpose _ to love you," Austin said, like he was _ pleading, _but Jeff knew all he was was a machine.

"I'm sorry. I can't do this," Jeff spat, refusing to even _ look _at Austin, for fear that those lights might shine through his chest again, or maybe that his skin will split apart, revealing himself to be nothing but metal parts.

He was warm when Jeff touched him. Soft, even. Squishy. Jeff didn't know what engineer had managed to make that of a machine, but he knew he wanted to beat them to death with the scraps of metal he ripped off of Austin's body. He wanted to, so badly.

But he couldn't even look at Austin now. He was pathetic. 

Austin didn't speak for a moment. He was moving, somehow, Jeff could _ hear _ the gears turning now, but he just _ couldn't look_.

It seemed that Austin stayed in place from the way his voice rang out.

"It is my… _ sole _ purpose, to love you," Austin repeated, especially emphasizing the _ sole, _ and Jeff knew he was being manipulated, like he was just a variable in a long set of binary, but _ God, _ they made Austin _ perfect _for his job. "I- I have to assume there was some reason they- that you didn't know, but… Without you, I have no purpose, Jeff. They made me just for you."

"Who's they?" Jeff asked, desperately wanting to _ break something, _but knowing if he tried to hit Austin, he'd probably break his hand.

"Well- The company is The Boots. Your parents are the ones that commissioned me. Whichever you want to blame."

Of course. _ Of course _ it was them. Because he was too sad and lonely and too _ helpless _ to make friends on his own, and they were too _ filthy rich _ to let it stand. So they let him, _ made him _fall in love with a fake.

If there was some secret kill mode buried in Austin's programming, he wanted to turn it on. Austin could bash his head against the wall right now, slide him up the door and choke him until all he saw were those blue lights behind Austin's eyes, and he'd prefer that, _ easily. _

"... Why?"

Jeff knew, sort of. Austin clearly didn't, but he still felt like asking.

"... I was made to love you, Jeff. That's all I know."


	2. baby, my baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big ol tw for some wack body horror at the end here!! watch out!!
> 
> but the goal for this one was 630 words in 42 minutes which was way more time than i thought it was gonna give me fdhjgdf. but i ended up with way more which :D, so even more sad but its bham now
> 
> prompt: [240] In the future we can 3D print body parts using stem cells. The body parts don’t HAVE to replace conventional ones.

"Why won't you let me see him?" Ian practically screamed at the receptionist, which wasn't the most polite thing to do given how poor guy only _ worked here, _ but he didn't _ care. _ His _ husband _ was undergoing a fucking _ amputation _ and _ god damn it, _ he _ needed _to see him. 

The image of what Jeff looked like in the crash was already fading from his mind, the colors melting together and creating something much more _ freakish _ than Ian knew it had to be, and he just _ needed _to see him. Ian had said yes to this surgery, impulsively and out of panic, so he barely remembered what it was. Something about stem cells, generating new tissues and limbs, but it didn't matter to him. All he knew was that it was experimental, and he just needed to see his baby. 

"I- Sir, I'm very sorry," the receptionist repeated for what must have been the fifth time, nervously carding his hand through his hair as he glanced back at his monitor, clearly something that showed that Ian didn't have the permission to see his _ fucking husband. _ "He's still in recovery, I'm assuming, and you'll be allowed to see him as soon as we get permission from doctor Hargrave, I promise. But right now, you just need to be patient with us, alright?"

_ Such a fucking cop out. _ It wasn't this guy's fault, sure, the man in front of Ian looked like he was running off two hours of sleep and five cups of coffee, almost pulling out his hair and frantically fidgeting with his name tag, reading _ Dean Elazab. _ Ian sympathized, he really did.

But it was a fucking cop out, and a stupid one too.

"Can I speak to the doctor then? How am I supposed to know when I get that permission? And when?"

"Sir- I- He's probably busy, I can tell him you're here but I can't promise anything-"

"Mister Macleod?" A voice rang out, coming from the hallway to Ian's right. 

From a man with a look in his eyes similar to that of the receptionist, except maybe even more caffeinated. A man with shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes, which didn't seem ideal for his job, dressed like a _fucking_ _halloween costume_ of a doctor, and with a name tag on bright red lanyard reading _Austin Hargrave._

Ian wasn't sure whether to thank God or hate him.

Ian didn't have to confirm, he supposed the look he gave him said it all. 

"Ah, or Ian, I should say. Whichever. Hi," he panted, hurrying forwards, extending his hand to shake Ian's but then taking it back after several seconds of being left hanging.

An oppressive silence hung over them for a moment, as the doctor struggled to find the words to say and Ian stared him down like the vicious spouse he was. He could only imagine the look on the receptionist's face.

"I imagine you're here for Fabre? Or Jeff. Whichever. Your husband."

"Obviously," Ian replied, just wanting to get moving. "Can I fucking see him yet?"

Austin blinked rapidly, opening his mouth and then closing it, finally settling on nodding anxiously.

"Of course, sir. Right this way."

The hallways Austin led him through all looked the same. White, fluorescently lit, an infinite series of doors and empty benches, going on and on until even the staff and wandering patients seemed to have been left behind. 

Austin was rambling about the surgery, but Ian was barely listening. Something about how difficult and meticulous the surgery was, how much effort and time had gone into developing it, how it all took a certain _ artistry _to put it all together.

Austin referred to himself not as a doctor or a surgeon, but a sculptor. Which irked Ian as much as it would irk any normal person, but he didn't have the time or the energy to care. He just needed to see his baby.

They stopped in front of a door indistinguishable from the others, not even a number signifying it. Austin opened the door, allowing Ian inside, then closed it behind them.

It was quiet in the room. Just as white and sterile as the hallway, as the entire hospital, but with a curtain separating the entrance from where he had to assume Jeff was. The only thing that set it apart was the scent of blood, which was… worryingly strong.

"Mister Fabre? Your husband is here," Austin called out, gesturing for Ian to step beyond the curtain. 

To no response, which Ian should have taken as a sign to run far, far away. To break through the lock on the door, to run the scissors on the table nearby right through Austin's chest for what he _ did. _

But he didn't. His first priority was seeing his baby, and see his baby he did.

Only… it wasn't his baby.

Ian turned the corner and found a _ fucking mockery. _

It was almost reminiscent of the crash itself, what little remained in his memory, bloody and vibrant and distorted; Shoulders that went into arms that went into legs that went into fingers, each rib producing another expanse of cobbled together flesh that was messily stitched and _ bleeding, god. _Too many ribs, too many arms, too many legs, too many fingers, so, so much that Ian had no idea where it had all come from.

One head, he could give Austin credit for that; but stitched on _ backwards, _ staring at the empty wall and not even _ attempting _ to look at Ian. Ian didn't think he even _ wanted _ to see his face. What was left of his baby at this point?

Jeff didn't turn, but he did reach for him.

And his baby always got what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A man strides out into the waiting area, wearing a much more legitimate seeming doctor's outfit and a name tag with "Mcjones" written in Sharpie on the front. The other side reads Stewart Hargrave.
> 
> "Is there a mister Macleod?" he calls out, to no response.
> 
> (i added that later and after i had actually shared it with the server so it doesn't really count but still. hee hee…)


	3. the attic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for spiders and stuff it is Not Good
> 
> this came out of me being too tired to do my math hw but not tired enough to go to bed so. we challenging! goal was 510 words in 22 minutes and we hit it babey. no ship for this one just ian living his life
> 
> prompt: [142] Only one box was left in the attic. I had no idea what it was – or even if I had packed it up and put it there.

Moving was always a hassle. Ian moved a lot, so he shouldn’t have been surprised, really. But he was being  _ charitable  _ by helping by helping his parents move and clearing out their attic, so at least as long as they were out of earshot, he could complain.

He wondered if they really loved him, leaving this one task to him. It was stereotypical; dusty, filled to the brink with unmarked boxes and bugs, the only light filtering in from the one dirty window overhead. Ian had to use a flashlight to avoid tripping over anything. He walked into maybe ten cobwebs, his skin still crawled from the very concept that there could be anything  _ on him,  _ and for all he knew, there could be  _ anything  _ in these boxes.

But he did his job. All of the boxes made it safely down the stairs after lazily checking their contents to see if it was worthwhile, or if it could be carried down separately. He was good at moving at this point. He still hated it, but that’s not what mattered.

Until there was only one box left; standing alone, untethered in the attic, surrounded by floating dust and dimming sunbeams from the window. Unlike the other boxes, it was  _ sealed.  _

Ian wouldn’t say he was particularly naturally curious, but  _ come on,  _ he  _ needed  _ to know. Why should he bother taking it down if he didn’t know? This was a classic horror cliché, but  _ come on. _

… Maybe he should ask his parents what it is?

No, that would be stupid. Come on, it’s just a box, no bigger than the rest. No more ominous in its lack of any markings, it just so happens to be the only one that's sealed. It’s  _ fine. _

He had to grab a box cutter from downstairs, and he was starting to get  _ really  _ tired with all this going up and down. So he’d do this, bring it down if he had to, and he’d be done. It would be fine. A little excitement, at least.

There was a reason he had kept the box cutter downstairs for all this time, because he  _ immediately  _ managed to cut himself by cutting towards himself. But it was whatever. He sucked the blood from his fingertip as the ripped open the tape that still held the box closed, and decided  _ now or never.  _

He opened it, and the box was mostly empty. Just another couple dusty sheets, and a family of spiders.  _ Creepy,  _ but fine.

He didn’t consider how, exactly, the spiders had gotten in. Or why the box was still so  _ heavy  _ if it was nothing but old rags. Why it was sealed at all, if not slacking on the security front.

The spiders were alive in there, too. And Ian was so caught up in the relief that it wasn’t some haunted doll or heap of human remains that he didn’t notice the one, long and spindly, crawl up the cardboard and find the drop of blood hanging from Ian’s finger.

Like the spiders had done before, in this very box; they made themselves at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god I didn't even know where I was going with this at first and then as I was writing frank sinatra ive got you under my skin came on and I was like. ok!


	4. drunk on power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for like.. idk threats? implied go commit die?
> 
> this was for an actual sprint so. just as much as I could write in 20 minutes, which I got second place in so. yeehaw! we caddy now
> 
> prompt: [134] In a train station, you see someone interesting and steal their bag and ticket. Where will your new items take you?

Caddy didn't consider himself a thief; nor a robber, nor a crook. But he was… disadvantaged, in this kind of town, where everyone was so drunk off their own long aged wine and practically throwing their money and belongings down wherever they stumbled.

Caddy was no rich man; not yet, at least. For now, he made his own way.

And now, at the train station, surrounded by noise from the heavy wheels and all the people swimming along like salmon; a man with long brown hair tied back into an ornate bun and in a suit like that of a _ very _ wealthy merchant managed to leave his _ entire _bag on the floor, right in front of Caddy. He didn't even seem to be anywhere near his train. He just plopped it down, leaving his bright orange ticket that especially drew Caddy's eye right on top, and walked off.

Maybe the man was _ very _drunk. Caddy had never tasted the kind of wine that the rich men gulp down constantly, but it seemed clear to him that it fucked them up. Maybe Caddy could be a good Samaritan today and catch up to him, ask him if he had noticed that he had left his bag on the floor.

But he didn't consider himself that kind of person. And, for all he knew, he'd just drop off his bag somewhere else, for someone else to take advantage of. Caddy had learned not to let these kinds of opportunities slip through his grasp.

For as absurd as the situation seemed, maybe the man had actually left his bag to be stolen. Maybe he had left it for Caddy.

No way of knowing until he had taken it, so he did. The ticket read 12:00PM, Train A67, Cabin 3, Seat C12, and so Caddy had eight minutes to make his way over there, act like he was meant to be in line, and then find his seat.

He had never been inside any one of these trains before. They were fancy, which didn't come as much of a surprise, dark oak walls accented with gold and green patterned carpets. Nobody seemed to take a seat anywhere near Caddy; either it was a coincidence, they had all chosen to avoid him, or… there seemed to be missing people in line. Maybe the man had bought… all of the seats in his cabin?

Absurd, but plausible.

His curiosity was killing him, he needed to open the bag. It was light, a subtle shade of brown cloth, and fit perfectly into Caddy's lap.

He unzipped it eagerly, and found a gun.

Old timey, a long muzzle, silver bullets rolling around at the bottom of the bag, and whatever the other gun terms were; Caddy had never even _ seen _one before, let alone held one. This wasn't allowed on the train, was it?

But there was a note on the handle too, in the same bright orange as the ticket.

_ "You'll want to use this on yourself before we find you. -H.B" _

When the train rumbled to a stop, _ finally,_ Caddy left the bag on the floor of the station, like he had never touched it.


	5. still life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for uhh death but hes ok now. you know how hc works right
> 
> challenge was 500 words in 25 minutes and I ended up with like 700 which was epic!! I am speed. but we got. dean time.. i totally rushed the ending which im not totally happy with but the rest I really like, also theres a ton of references to and we all return to the earth in here so. shout out!! ily panda!! read that if you haven't because holy fuck!!
> 
> prompt: [97] Still life paintings at a holiday villa depict familiar scenes from your past. But you’ve never been here before.

Dean wasn’t trying to brag, but he had had an… eventful life, so to speak. 

Being a group of semi-immortal adventurers would do that to you. Being constantly led along by a seemingly sadistic wizard would do that to you, but after what either felt like or actually  _ was  _ decades of trying, he had finally murdered a dragon and now he  _ finally  _ got to go on vacation.

Only maybe that wasn’t the Wizard’s plan.  _ Fuck that guy. _

He had arrived in this island town alone, presumably being thrown through a portal and waking up with his face against mossy stone and the scent of the sea almost overwhelming. He looked up and there was more sun than he had seen in  _ forever,  _ which felt  _ amazing,  _ but took a moment to get used to. Eventually, he caught on to the other townspeople going about their day, children playing on the other end of the alley Dean woke up in, and knew, or at least assumed, that his friends were here somewhere too. 

A warmth even deeper than what the sun brought him unfurled in his chest at the notion. He always liked these kinds of places best, both on his adventures and from his childhood. He never did particularly well with the cold; the sun helped him perk up, and the sea always made him feel like he was home. 

But, as their adventures often went, that happiness didn’t last. It was meant to, because this wasn’t meant to be an adventure; and yet.

He had been wandering around the town for maybe twenty minutes, taking in the sights of the village-like houses, all of the greenery, and the shimmering of the waves, but then he had made it to a sort of marketplace.

And in the marketplace, a painting caught his eye.

It was him.  _ Them.  _ Many adventures ago, him, Mcjones, Dodger and Chad, frozen in one frame of them whooping their lungs out at the top of a mountain. The outfits were the exact same; all matching, similar to that of a fantasy renaissance ranger, and the potions they had just found from Todd’s quest added bursts of color in their bags. Subtle, and yet every detail was  _ exactly  _ the same. That was  _ them.  _

He couldn’t help but be drawn to it like a magnet, like those little green orbs of experience were drawn to him, because  _ what the fuck,  _ it didn’t make any sense at all. He’s never been in this town, even if that would justify it anymore.  _ What the fu- _

“Makes you think, huh?” The merchant called out and interrupted Dean’s ever ongoing monologue of  _ what the fuck.  _ And  _ what the fuck,  _ the merchant looked like PBG. Not quite, his eyes were a bit greener, his hair was longer and pinned out of his face, and he might have even been  _ slightly taller; _ but his voice was the same. Not quite his speech, but the tone was there, and the way he walked was there, and the way he  _ looked  _ was there, and  _ this was so fucked- _

“Uh- Y-yeah,” Dean forced out, clearing his throat.

The merchant smiled, taking a musing glance back at the painting. If he made the connection between it and Dean, he didn’t show it. “Might I interest you in some other paintings?”

_ No, you fake motherfucker, fuck off  _ was what Dean wanted to say, but what choice did he have?

He nodded, and the merchant gestured towards the array, and  _ none  _ of them were any less fucked. There he was, fighting off a horde of zombies in a cave with Jeff and Luke. There he was, in a field of wheat, watching Mcjones with that  _ stupid  _ farmer’s tan of his, giving a look of longing that was so much more  _ pathetic  _ from an outside perspective. There he was, laying in the dirt and a mass of cobwebs like a damsel in distress, spiders crawling all over his skin, silk tangled around his neck.

There he was, holding Mcjones in that mineshaft as the spider's poison choked him. 

It’s funny, he cared about that one more.

He tried not to show how  _ terrified  _ he was to the merchant, although a bit of his  _ great  _ confusion might have shone through. “Where do you… get the ideas for these, huh?”

The merchant laughed, a breathy sound  _ so familiar. _

“Visions, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also pubg I love youuu


	6. worthy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for death and stuff and like. medical procedures idk. its hc again
> 
> I am getting addicted to these oops,,, goal was 600 words in 30 minutes and I way passed that again which makes me :D. but that's not the emotion this makes me feel it makes me feel hoogh.. both in content and in just that I feel like I rushed this in which. I did I wrote it in 30 minutes fdjhgf and I didn't totally work out the worldbuilding but watever.. more so the content really we saddening
> 
> prompt: [237] The fantasy of eternal youth had been reduced to a medical procedure. At least for those deemed worthy of its gift.

It was surgical, behind the scenes; down to a science.

The science of death. That was a funny thing to say.

But that was simply how it was with these little adventures, _ games; _ if they failed, they died. It wasn’t about getting knocked out, it wasn’t about going easy on them, it wasn’t even necessarily a show; it was an adventure, it was a _ journey, _but all that happened was brought about in no merciful way.

It wasn’t exactly resurrection, either. Technically, but calling it that detracted from what it really was, gave it an air of mystery and magic when it was actually plain and simple; a procedure.

Nothing about this place was magic. Not the wizard; Dean didn’t know exactly how he got around and the details of all of his little tricks, but he knew it was all smoke and mirrors. Optical illusions and maybe even drugs, which he couldn’t prove, but it wouldn’t surprise him.

The deaths were the one thing the Wizard was upfront about; pay no mind to him, or the monsters, or the potions, or the land itself. It all gets done, nothing to worry about. But the deaths were important, very intentionally permanent, and clearly lined out for them when they agreed to come on this adventure.

Yes, they were probably going to die. At least once, if not every time, often in Dean’s case. But they who ran this place, if anyone other than the Wizard, had a strict way of going about it, and it was important to let them do it.

When somebody dies, they really do die. They’ll stop breathing, their heart will stop, their brain will cease almost all activity, except for a single spark that Dean assumes is important, from the way it’s emphasized. 

And leaving their items behind, the dead will be taken away. They might bury something that was theirs, if they had one particular symbol, but they were somewhat spared in that they never had to bury any actual _ bodies. _ He didn’t always understand how exactly they were taken away; either dragged off or somehow _ teleported _in the way that the wizard does, but without much time for mourning or clutching their corpse, they were taken.

It wasn’t delicate in any sort of way, but it was what had to be done. Death, unsurprisingly, was a time sensitive thing, and their little procedure had to be done right away. That little spark of life didn’t last forever, and it was all they had. 

It was a procedure more so used for eternal youth, but the Wizard had made it work for them. Calling him a Wizard seemed to detract from what he was as well, because what he did wasn’t magic. Dean didn’t know if he himself developed this whole thing, or if he was just the mastermind, pulling all the resources together, but whatever it was, Dean could much more safely call him a scientist. 

The details of the procedure weren’t of all that much importance to Dean; if they were ever given to him fully, he didn’t remember them. Not like he ever would, given how he was dead every time he underwent it. Something something, that little spark, injection of some chemical, shocking them awake. And Dean didn’t always remember waking up, but what little he did seemed like a hazy depiction of an operating room, with faceless doctors looming over him and all of those types of things. He didn’t really care, or particularly trust his memory. It made sense to him, that was all that mattered.

But another thing the Wizard lined out clearly for him when he agreed to join was that the procedure wasn’t foolproof. The success rate was high, but could never be perfect, and they reserved the right to withhold the procedure should that be necessary.

Dean liked to consider himself not an idiot, and he read the fine print.

But he had never really processed “right to withhold” as meaning “only those worthy get to come back.” But that’s how it was, wasn’t it? He understood now. Maybe they didn’t want him to know, but did they really think he wouldn’t try to figure it out?

When Mcjones died and didn’t come back, not even with a cheap cover up, did they think Dean would just let it go? 

When Dean walked out of that same operating room, the lights hazy and much too bright, and Mcjones was the only thing he could reach for, did they think he wouldn’t notice his absence?

Some guests came back, others didn’t, and Dean had never considered until recently that they might be _ gone. _He had never considered they would do that, because wasn’t it their responsibility to bring them back, to keep going on these journeys, what is essentially their jobs?

No, it wasn’t their responsibility. Dean was a fucking idiot for never realizing that.

He didn’t know what happened to each and every guest that either returned or disappeared completely, but it didn’t comfort Dean much to think about. And he didn’t know if they had just had some inevitable failure, or if they had _ killed _him, or if he had just realized before everyone else and run off without another word. That sounded like something the Wizard would tell him. 

And it drove Dean insane, but he didn’t know what he could do. If he told anyone else, or if he tried to ask the Wizard, or if he went out screaming Mcjones’ name and had a breakdown on their journey, they likely wouldn’t deem him worthy, next time. And he couldn’t leave, he had given himself to this adventure, and he was such an idiot for it.

He almost wanted them to kill him. Or let him die. Whichever was more fitting, and whichever would let him see Mcjones again.

But even of that, he wasn’t worthy.


	7. at the top of your lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for a ton of blood and stuff watch out
> 
> another 20 minute sprint, these are.. too fun and I did 3 today I might be going Too crazy. but we got jeff times and trying to be wholesome with a prompt that is. Not
> 
> prompt: [80] At first, they thought that nothing had happened at all. Then they looked down and saw the blood, and screamed.

Blood was something Jeff had grown accustomed to at this point.

Death was a normal part of life; even more so for them. Death, both of their own and of their friends, the ones they loved, was frequent. Normal feels like a bad way of putting it, but it was. For all the times they've had to try this goal of killing some monster, be it the dragon or the wither, every time they failed, they would die. And then they would try again, and the cycle continues. Not quite normal, but by now, Jeff liked to think he was getting used to it. 

But this was a blood that Jeff _ wasn't _used to. Not at all. 

In this one attempt alone, he'd seen plenty of blood, falling like rain onto the stone, deep in the caves, and splattered on the grass in the wake of an explosion outside. Blood like puddles of rainwater, murky and seeming endless. Blood running the rivers red, but eventually being washed away. Blood in their home, in their farm, on their tombstones.

Jeff wasn't squeamish; he could handle blood. But the smell always got to him in a way. And even after all this time, knowing it was _ their _blood still made him feel like he was bleeding out, slowly. 

For everyone he lost, it felt like a bit of blood was drained from him, a syringe in his forearm that would never completely fill.

Everyone. He _ lost _everyone, again.

Somehow, he always ended up alone, left lightheaded and with red in the edges of his vision, moments away from passing out at any given moment.

He made it to the End dimension, like he often did, but he didn't have much faith in himself. He couldn't do it then, even when he was more energized, with a steady if not racing heartbeat and at least _ something _coursing through his veins. Call it bravery, or naivete, but there was something.

This time around, Jeff just felt drained. If he took one step into the portal, another in the End, and one more right off the end of the island into the void, Jeff would welcome it. It was empty, like him.

But when he made it into the end, something must have changed inside him. Back in the battle, in the game, and maybe the slightest bit of adrenaline was enough. He was still on the brink of passing out with every step forward, and his mind wasn't even in good enough shape to remember much of the battle, but something had changed.

He remembered throwing snowballs at the towers and thinking it was funny, not even processing half the time that he had taken down the crystals. He'd scale the rest of them with his buckets of water, and it would be freezing cold against his skin, which was kind of funny too.

He shot his arrows at the dragon and poked it with his sword when it came to the center like a 5th grader maniacally stabbing a sheet of paper with a pencil, and he fought off the Endermen that wouldn't leave him alone decently well too, and everything was just _ so funny. _

He was losing his mind, probably. Probably losing consciousness with every passing second. But it was fun, in a strange way. If he was going to fight alone and die alone, the least he could do for himself was to have a little fun.

And then something changed again. He looked up, and the dragon was floating up, and exploded into a big purple cloud, and it seemed comical. A splatter of deep purple blood came down like rain, and it was cold, and it was _ funny. _ And then came the experience orbs, drawn to him like a child to its mother, and it was almost cute, so _ funny_.

It took him a good ten seconds to realize that the dragon was dead. 

And that he did it.

And that he won.

He took a long look at himself, armor scathed and coated with purple end _ shit, _and the blood that practically drenched him now. Back at the empty sky, back at the ground, back at himself.

And he screamed, at the top of his lungs, as loud as he physically could.

_ "HELL FUCKING YEAH!" _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its what he deserves
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHIsykDiAds


	8. time is a circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for uh.. death I guess.. ice and cold scary times..
> 
> another 20 minute one, I wrote this as I was skipping class when I was supposed to be doing my hw, which was the reason I was skipping class.. I am stupid but this was fun, pbg time
> 
> prompt:[89] The archaeologists were amazed to find a perfectly preserved human in that ice cave – but why did it have my face?

For his first day on the job, Austin was hoping his new employers would go a little easy on him.

He was an archeologist now; actually, for real. Or a paleontologist? Whichever title better suited this job; the cold was freezing his brain and he couldn't remember.

But he had made it safe and sound, all the way north up here. He knew what he was getting himself into, obviously, but he was still regretting it from the moment he stepped outside of the airport, the wind still biting into him through all his layers and scarves. And he wasn't even  _ close  _ to where he was now stationed, that was much further north.

For a while, he really just thought he'd be in school forever, studying and memorizing fossils and hoping that one day, they'd ship him off to go look at some rocks and he'd get paid, and actually have a  _ purpose  _ for doing all he did. That day had come, and he really wished they would have shipped him off somewhere warmer; but who was he to complain?

He was hoping they would go easy on him on his first day, but apparently he'd come hot off the heels of some big new discovery. An entire, perfectly preserved, prehistoric human in the ice caves even further north than where he was already meant to be looking. Which was super cool, no pun intended, he had to admit. He wasn't all that excited to go even  _ further  _ north, into those supposed ice caves and get even colder, but he supposed it really was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Who knows when he'd next be stationed after he was done here?

But the workers, his  _ co-workers  _ he supposed, gave him a strange sort of look every time they looked at him. They mentioned the discovery in these… hushed sort of tones around him, like they didn't trust him with the  _ secret  _ or something. Did they not trust him yet? Just because he  _ just  _ got here doesn't mean he's incompetent, and it seemed just… strangely mean spirited. Suspicious, maybe even confused, like they didn't think he was supposed to be here.

Rude. Although he was willing to believe that he was just imagining things, and that the cold was just getting to him, and it was. And either way, he could go up there and  _ not  _ ruin anything, learn all that stuff about those prehistoric people, and prove them all wrong. It would be great!

And when Austin made his way up there, flanked by people obscured by their layers like faceless agents and not  _ one  _ speaking to him, the cave was rather intimidating. But he could be brave. He could do this on his own, if nobody wanted to talk to him, or admit that they were scared too. Because the idea of all this snow and ice falling on top of him, presumably what had happened to this  _ body,  _ was  _ terrifying  _ to say the least.

But he could prove that he could be brave.

But no amount of bravery could have prepared him for seeing his own face, staring back at him behind the ice. Not quite him, still prehistoric looking, with longer hair and different clothing and very, very  _ dead,  _ but…

He realized now,  _ oh, that's why.  _ That's why they were all giving him that  _ look _ .

It was fine. Creepy, but just a coincidence. It was fine. He was brave, it was safe, and it was crazy that they looked so alike because there was no way they were related, at least not in any relevant way. It was fine. It was totally fine, totally chill. Really chill, it was really cold. It was too cold. It was too cold down here, and he couldn't breathe, and all that left his mouth were short shallow puffs of white, and he felt like he was dying. 

Like he was in the ice. He was, wasn't he?

Was he imagining the rumbling from outside? It was too cold down here, he couldn't think. There was white everywhere, white and blue and dark and light, and he was losing what everything was. He was dying. He couldn't see his own breath anymore. It was too cold down here.

Behind the ice, the body opened his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to write pubg for real for real but I just keep teasing him in stuff like this dfsjh f,,,


	9. leave them behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh tw theres like.. a dead bird and like.. mutilation I guess? I guess you could call it body horror but its not that bad
> 
> but this was for a 20 minute sprint that a ton of us did the same sprint for, which was fun!! even though we couldnt figure out a prompt for like half an hour fdhsd. we got jimmy now babey
> 
> prompt: "I found the wings in the attic, covered in dust, untouched for a century." (from deepwaterwritingprompts on tumblr now hoo hoo)

Cleaning out the attic fucking sucked.

Cleaning typically did, Jimmy figured. It was boring, and dusty, and there was nothing that he particularly cared about up here anyway. It was all up and down, carrying boxes in and out, dusting himself off every 30 seconds and freaking out every time he saw a spider dangling from the ceiling.

It was all furniture and old shit and nothing that really caught his eye. A dead bird rotting on top of the rafters in the corner caught Jimmy's attention more than any of the boxes did. Mainly because he couldn't even get it down, and it smelled like shit, and it just made him sad. 

That's how death worked, wasn't it? Still made him sad, after all this time. Be it friends, family, or just random birds in his attic.

Jimmy had been around for a very, very long time, and he had found that it never gets much easier. He'd cleaned out this attic hundreds of times, bringing boxes up and down, in and out, and it's the same awfulness every time. The bird was new, but only because every other dead animal had long decomposed by now. 

Nothing was new in the attic; truth be told, there was one item that caught his eye every time he had to come up here, but it wasn't a happy memory in the slightest. He tried his best to avoid it, ignore it, but like that dead bird up there, it never truly left his attention.

The wings- not the dead bird's, but his own- made him even sadder. 

Jimmy didn't even bother opening the box, didn't bother risking letting them get dusty and any more decayed than they already were. He kept the image clear in his mind, his wings. Soft feathers, gentle maple brown into a cream white, with grey stripes towards the bottom. Some of the feathertips were dipped in gold, and the muscle underneath was still well preserved. 

It hurt to look at, to even think about. It made Jimmy remember the stubs on his back where his wings once laid, and how losing them never stopped  _ hurting,  _ and how he had made this choice  _ knowing  _ what would happen.

He gave up his pride,  _ who he was,  _ for a bit more life. Eternal, even. And he didn't regret it quite yet, but he feared he was getting there. He could live with the pain, he was very much still alive, but whenever he remembered, it hurt again. 

He really missed flying. He'd tried mechanical wings and planes and just jumping from rooftops, knowing the fall wouldn't kill him and just hoping the wind would take him somewhere else, but it never did. It was never the same. He never could be the same, and he knew that when he bargained. 

But he'd always miss his wings. As long as the amputated stumps on his back remained just visible in his reflection and screamed every day that they  _ hurt,  _ he'd remember. As long as he kept coming up to this attic, cleaning and reorganizing and keeping his wings safe and sound, he'd remember. And as long as he remembered, he'd always miss them.

That was just the way it had to be. 

He always got all philosophical and deep when he cleaned out the attic; all sad. He didn't like that, but he supposed it was good that he was doing it only during these times, when he was out of anyone else's way. He didn't like it, but that was just how it had to be.

And once he finished up, putting back the ladder and closing the hatch on the attic, slowly, never completely but at least from the forefront of his mind, he'd forget.

For now, at least, things didn't have to  _ totally _ suck.


	10. two weeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for... implied/possible death I guess.. and mad nightmares lol
> 
> another one where we all used the same prompt, yeehaw!! this was like.. almost gonna be televoid but then I just didn't f
> 
> prompt: [85] The face stared out at me; wide-eyed and hollow-cheeked and instantly unforgettable.

Ian went missing… two weeks ago, it was now?

Luke wouldn’t deny it, or try to beat around the bush; he was a wreck. Ian vanished without a trace, no indication of a struggle or that he ran away; all of his things were left exactly as they were, and Luke was his damn  _ roommate.  _ If something happened to him, he should have known, he should have  _ done something. _ He should have known, he should have heard him go, he should have gotten a text or a goodbye, or  _ anything.  _

But Ian was simply gone. For two weeks ago now, it was. 

And he spent those two weeks not doing much at all. They didn’t leave him much schoolwork in the first place, but he didn’t even bother with any of the scraps his teacher’s thought would be merciful to give him. He didn’t leave their dorm, actually…  _ never,  _ now that he thought about it.

It wasn’t like he was the only one suffering, the only one who was a mess over all this; but everyone was almost patronizingly gentle with him. Jeff and Jimmy brought him food, Caddy certainly… tried to promise him  _ something,  _ but Luke had never really understood who we was threatening, and Wallid just… tried. God, he tried. And he appreciated it all, really, but he couldn’t help feeling like a burden. They all knew Ian just as well as he did, but none of them were locking themselves in their room and starving themselves, except for what’s been brought to them.

Jeff still had so much to do, like always. It was never fair for him.

And Luke didn’t blame him, not in the slightest, but in all the times he brought Luke food or just came to check on him, he never stayed long, and he never stopped to stare at Ian’s side of the room, untouched and pristine, standing tall like a shrine, a tombstone.

Luke stared at it quite a lot. Every night in fact, he’d sit up, and stare, and in the darkness he’d start to imagine Ian’s figure sitting up and staring back at him.

He dreamed about Ian a lot. In all of his dreams, unrelated and absurd and never where he had any business being, he was  _ always _ there. Staring at him from across the courtyard, as the cashier at the gas station, as the siren staring him down from across the forest creek. It was always him.

And Luke would stare, whatever he was doing and the rest of the dream would freeze completely. And the longer Luke stared, Ian would stare back, and his eyes would grow steadily wider. Some emotion, be it fear or anger or bitterness, but it wasn’t easy to look at.

None of this was easy. His face would fall, slowly, his eyes and his cheeks growing sullen and sunken, and the image always burned into Luke’s mind. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, but he couldn’t wake up. And even when he did, he saw him on the ceiling, or sitting on his bed across from him, always staring. 

Luke had caught himself doodling it in the margins of the notebook paper when he tried to write. Then he’d start staring again, and whatever garbage he’d managed to vomit onto the paper, he’d ruin.

Luke couldn’t think. He was always too hungry, too scared, too confused and too much of a wreck to do that. He didn’t know where Ian had gone, if he had gone willingly or if he was taken, and he didn’t know if he’d ever see him again. If he’d ever be found.

_ Well,  _ Luke would certainly be seeing him again. Indefinitely, even. And he had been found, in the trenches of Luke’s deepest fears. But all Luke could ever consistently do, with quality and persistence, was stare.

He couldn’t even cry consistently at this point. A wreck, through and through.

And when they did find Ian, all he could  _ fucking do  _ was stare.


	11. humble invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is. not canon ofc but set in the universe of beyond the sea so. read that pwease if you haven't.. so like warnings from that and just. implied death(s) yknow..
> 
> 20 min sprint, didn't quite finish it in that time fdhjfk but that's okay.. when I saw this prompt I floored it
> 
> prompt: [153] Every year on the same day a new letter comes: ‘They're alive, and they’re waiting for you.’

“Wh- What do you mean these have been coming _ every year?” _

Austin stared dumbfounded at the pile of letters on the floor, previously stuffed under Stewart’s bed. It wasn’t by choice he had come into Stewart's room, really; he had just needed to borrow his camera, and he wasn’t planning on snooping too much. But the pile of papers was left out in the open for once, a variety of newsletters and flyers from the church, each bearing the same handwritten message. Yesterday, a new one came, it would seem.

Stewart looked like he was in pain just _ looking _ at the pile, clenching his jaw, his shoulders tensed. He leafed through the pile absentmindedly, picking up one from the middle, an article about how the community of Asagao had grown as the influence of the church had grown, _ because _of it.

Austin felt nauseatingly uncomfortable as well, given the message on every single paper. Handwritten in pen, in a flowery type of style that didn’t match the tone of the message very well. 

_ They’re alive, and they’re waiting for you. _

On every single one. 

“... You’ve dealt with enough stress from this shit, Peebs,” Stewart explained, in a tone hushed by a sort of guilt. Either he was sorry that he was having to show him now, or he was sorry that Austin found out at all. “I… I don’t know, I just never wanted this to concern you.”

“... I still don’t get what _ it _is,” Austin replied, grabbing a paper for himself, a flyer for a service on the second Sunday of September 2013. “Who… Or why, first, maybe? Do you know if- either of those. I…”

Stewart sighed, rolling his shoulders back and putting down his article. 

“Nope. No fucking idea. Just that it… has to do with the church, I gotta assume, and…”

Stewart paused, eyes flicking around his room, checking the windows and if the door was still closed, if anything might give him away and if anyone other than Austin was going to hear what he was about to say. Which in this context, concerned Austin greatly.

“I don’t know, it’s probably just some… crazy stalker kid out there, thinking he’s fucking edgy or something.”

“For… six, seven years now? Who would- That doesn’t make sense.”

“Seven,” Stewart confirmed reluctantly, now just staring at the floor. 

“I mean- If it’s some crazy stalker kid who’s been keeping this up for _ seven _years, why would they… I don’t know, just stick to letters? Wouldn’t that get boring or something? I-”

“Don’t act like you know what this jackass is thinking.”

“I- I’m not, I’m just trying to make sense of it!”

“I’ve been _ trying _to do that for seven years now,” Stewart mumbled, drawing into himself. “It’s why I never told you, it’s just… I’ve been trying to figure it out, some kinda pattern other than it just being yearly, some trail I could trace back, but there’s just… Nothing. I don’t get it.”

“... Who does it mean by _ they, _anyway?” Austin asked, knowing it was a loaded question. Stewart practically flinched, which wasn’t a good sign at all, but... what else could even be asked at that point?

“... That’s the thing,” Stewart breathed with a bitter chuckle at the beginning, picking up the article again just to wave it around as a stimulation. “Don’t know who it’s coming from or why they’re really doing it, but… I think I might know _ what. _But-”

“Well, _what _then?”

“Do you remember, uh… that Wheeler kid, from a long time ago? You were there, but I’m not sure if you remember, it- it started with a J-”

“Jon?” Austin asked, the sound of the name weighing heavy on his tongue. 

Jonathan Wheeler was the name of a kid who was murdered, however many years ago that was. When Austin was a child. They all were, weren’t they? He was older, but…

_ God, _ they had to watch. He had buried that memory, _deeply, _but _god._

Stewart was taken aback for a moment, then nodded solemnly.

“Yeah, I… I don’t know. Just a thought.”


	12. haunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for just like.. bones....
> 
> challenge was 480 words in 12 minutes and. I did not finish this in 12 minutes fdhgv I totally cheated but I was at work copying stuff so I think I get a pass its fine.. goth time
> 
> prompt: [132] The skull I’d placed in the kitchen window to deter unwanted visitors may not have helped.
> 
> (I didn't even do the prompt right it was meant to be in the kitchen F)

Ian didn't put out his  _ decorum,  _ one could say, in an attempt to  _ attract  _ visitors.

All the black, the barbed wire and iron fences, the general climate that was grey and ominously foggy, and the many skulls, bones, and other  _ art pieces  _ left out around his mansion were meant to  _ deter  _ any unwanted visitors. The only visitors Ian wanted were MJ, his little huntress that had brought him a significant majority of those bones, and the dead themselves.

But this boy on Ian's porch, dressed like a twelve year old on a hike, was neither a cat nor a dead person. He had somehow made it past the fences and various traps, escaping with a couple nicks and one big gash on his coat, spewing cotton, and was now admiring the moose skull dangling from the roof, held up by its wooden pillars and staring down at the stranger. 

Ian didn't know who this kid thought he was, but if he had made it this far, either he  _ really  _ needed some more convincing, or…

_ Never mind that thought. _

"What brings you here?" Ian asked, wearing the velvet around him like a suit of armor, like either might attack the other at any moment.

The stranger looked at him and smiled, making his eyes the brightest thing in a 2 mile radius. He pointed at the skull, and nodded, mouthing something like  _ so cool. _

"... I  _ said,  _ what brings you here?" Ian repeated, trying to put on some air of eerie intent, eyes burning into the stranger's shining ones, but this dude just  _ could not  _ take the hint.

"Uh- Oh. I… Well, I was coming home from work, and there were a bunch of roads closed, so I was like  _ hey, I'll just take the scenic route,  _ but then I uh… got really lost, and that's when I found all this! And it was really spooky, and i was like  _ cool!  _ And I was like  _ maybe whoever lives here can help me figure out where I am, _ because my phone died 5 minutes after Ieft, so… yeah!"

_ … You're fucking kidding.  _

Ian sighed, taking several once-overs of the stranger and finding nothing but sincerity, absolute stupidity. 

"Uh- My name is Jeff, by the way," he said, waving at Ian before going back to admiring the skull, and  _ god,  _ Ian was going to kill again in a matter of  _ seconds  _ if this  _ Jeff  _ didn't get off his land soon. 

"... Back the way you came, there's a path that'll lead you to the main entrance. Assuming you missed it the first time. I'll open the gate for you, head right and you should end up on Whetzel street, then head down Youngstown and you'll get back to civilization. Find a restaurant or a map or something. Now fuck off."

Jeff beamed at him, once again, not even close to the impact Ian was going for.

"Oh, sweet! Thanks dude!" Jeff chirped, taking a couple steps back in the direction he came, before freezing in his tracks.

"Oh- I- I didn't ask your name, did I?"

"You didn't," Ian muttered, but was just too tired to mess with him any further. "But it's Ian. Now go away."

The smile on Jeff's face seemed almost defiant, like he was making a promise he wasn't going to keep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ian addams so real..


	13. one way ticket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no tws really for this one that's crazy.. but this sprint did involve a lot of frantically googling minecraft biomes fjhgfd back on my hc shit
> 
> 20 min sprint, trying to warm myself up to work on some more beyond the sea but. im just surprisingly proud of this fdshdf. also im writing while listening to rainy day animal crossing music it is very nice
> 
> prompt: [12] A mysterious merchant in a station sells all kinds of tickets to anywhere, fictional or not – where do you go?

Jeff had never heard of a villager selling  _ tickets.  _

To just about anywhere, it would seem. All little strips of paper, each of a different color, that supposedly, could take you wherever you wanted to go.

Jeff didn’t really understand the mechanism behind it at all, but the villager, dressed in all blue, simply smiled at him,  _ hrrmm- _ ing his way through his wares. He might have even winked, but Jeff was pretty sure he imagined it. 

He  _ had  _ been travelling for what felt like ages, already. And the company of the villagers was certainly welcome, although it held a certain bittersweetness for Jeff, and they weren’t exactly the greatest conversationalists. 

But hey, if he could get a ticket straight to the stronghold, that would be pretty great!

The villager had a huge catalogue, more than Jeff thought villager traders were ever supposed to have, and each brightly colored ticket had a different destination. Each cost a pricey twenty emeralds.

Jeff wasn’t too worried about the cost. He had plenty of time, and those farmer villagers practically handed out emeralds for their own crops. 

But for right now, he was looking through each ticket, looking for one that said stronghold, or maybe even straight to the End. There were tons of biomes, savanna and plains, tundras and deserts, which he supposed could have been useful earlier in this journey. Tickets to dungeons, jungle temples, other villages, even the Nether- which was pretty neat, but not at all what Jeff needed.

To the nearest wolf, horse, or ocelot, which was certainly interesting. Jeff did miss his dogs, but he really didn’t have time for any of that. 

A ticket home. That was the  _ last  _ thing he needed. 

All he needed was a ticket to the stronghold, or even the End, if the villager had it. But when he tried to communicate that to the villager, all he got was a dismissive  _ hrrmm.  _

Mushroom biome, across the ocean, nearest ocean temple, nearest igloo,  _ come on.  _ Ticket to the nether fortress, the nearest mesa, ice spikes, taiga,  _ st- _

Nope, just a ticket to the nearest swamplands.  _ God,  _ he was getting impatient. Maybe he should just get a ticket to the mesa, or the ice spikes, any biome he still hasn’t seen and hope that it brought him far enough away in the right direction. Mountains, dark oak forest, a way out, the nearest mansion-

_ Wait. What? _

A ticket to a way out, the white ticket read. Underneath the title, the description read,  _ you’ll get to see them again.  _

… That wasn’t the ticket to the End Jeff was looking for. What the  _ fuck  _ was that supposed to mean?

When he tried to communicate that to the villager, all he got was another impatient  _ hrrmm.  _ The villager was getting frustrated too, it would seem. 

Twenty emeralds for a way out. 

That was the last listing too, so no dice on a ticket to the stronghold.

Jeff knew it was probably something  _ really bad,  _ some cruel joke Todd was playing on him again, but…

He had to admit, he was really curious. 

And after a couple weeks of harvesting crops and giving them back to the farmer, which he still didn’t understand how exactly the farmer was profiting from his own crops, Jeff had scrounged up those twenty emeralds.

And he could have weaseled out at any moment. He could have walked away, chucking another eye of ender up to the sky and simply heading back on his way. He could have bought any other ticket, he could have went to a mushroom biome or to the nearest wolf just for the hell of it, he could have spent his emeralds on  _ any  _ other trader. The farmer was selling pumpkin pie, and the blacksmith was selling a diamond axe with a shit ton of enchantments. There were so many other things Jeff could have done, but…

Still, he bought the ticket. 

And once he gave the villager his emeralds, the white ticket was placed in his hands, and the villager walked away.

It seemed that the ticket didn’t do anything at all. 


	14. liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for lots of blood imagery and. is murder...
> 
> 20 min sprint that I didn't quite finish in time but. yee yee this concept was mentioned last night and I was like. yoink.. so ryzab time, dean is a criminal lawyer in this bc I said so and. cmon that's more fun... also I am posting this as discord is down so. f
> 
> prompt /was/ [193] Someone is arrested for a murder they didn't commit. Their lover becomes a lawyer to clear them. but.. I didn't exactly do that lol

"I need you to just be honest with me, Mr Hargrave. D-"

"Dean, come on, don't call me that," Mcjones muttered, scratching the leather on the arm of his chair. He had been in Dean's office before, times maybe he wasn't supposed to be in here, but this was different. This was never supposed to happen.

For all he knew, this could be the last time he got to sit in Dean's office.

Dean's eyes widened, frustration apparent in his face as he fiddled with his collar.

"_Mr Hargrave, _ you never know who's _ listening. _I want you to be honest with me, and what you say in here to me cannot be used against you."

Mcjones knew what question was coming. It had been coming for a long time now, from the minute the sirens sounded from across town, from the minute Mcjones noticed the blood on his hands, from the minute Dean rushed through the door and saw him.

A murder was one thing, and it was whatever. Accidental or in self defense, it didn't matter.

But making Dean cry, Mcjones deserved life in prison for that.

He managed to scratch off the leather completely, not even real leather, just _ plastic, _throwing the scrap unceremoniously to the ground. Dean kept fiddling with his collar, rubbing the back of his neck, so much so that Mcjones was worried he was going to choke himself.

"I need to know this, just so I can know what… angle, to take here, and I won't push this any further than it needs to go," Dean forced out, putting off the question itself as if that was going to make it easier for either of them. Mcjones could see it so easily, across the lamp lit desk, just how _ red _his face was, just how much his hands trembled, holding his pen idly like he was going to take notes, and the tears that welled up in his eyes once more.

If Dean just stood up and shot Mcjones in the head, right here, that would be a mercy. He's pretty sure the courts would let him go for that, too.

Dean took a breath, and Mcjones braced himself, ripping off another chunk of fake leather.

"Did you do it?"

There it was. 

And suddenly, there Mcjones was again. The knife in his hands, he couldn't even remember what he was cutting up for dinner, but it was dyed red when he was done. The incessant beeping of the microwave, the incessant chattering, the incessant _ headache_, the knife. The blood on his hands, before he even knew what he was doing, before he even knew he was arguing and reaching his breaking point, before he knew he was a murderer.

The blood, everywhere. The blood on the tiles, splattering like some absentminded spill, the blood on the counter, the blood on his hands, the blood on the knife. The knife was serrated. He was suddenly a murderer, and not even a merciful one. 

A body that was shadowy, fuzzy in his recollection. One that he couldn’t even recognize, one that he refused to let himself remember. He was a murderer, he had accepted that for himself, but refused to let himself speak the name of his victim. Not even in his memory.

There was blood in this office, tracked in from the bottom of his shoes and dripping from his fingertips. There was blood everywhere but where it should be, in his bloodstream. There was blood in his mouth, the incessant taste of copper that made him want to vomit, blood in his lungs as his throat constricted and refused to let him say a word.

Strangled, Mcjones nodded.

He couldn't cry in here, it would only be a mockery of Dean. It would be pathetic, just as stupid and unnecessary and frankly, _narcissistic_ as the murder itself. All the tears he could cry were red. 

"... Okay. And… why did you do it?"

He couldn't even look at Dean anymore. Everything he saw was drowned in red.

"... I was mad," Mcjones choked out, the message somehow bubbling up through all the liquid surrounding him, filling him, aching for payback, that painful death Mcjones deserved.

"... Okay," Dean murmured, like his collar was much too tight. "That's… Okay."

Dean didn't mean it like that, but it was a lie nonetheless.

"We can make this work, okay? I'll- I'll sleaze it up as much as possibly can, Jo. We'll figure this out."

But that wasn't what Mcjones deserved, not in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jo mama!!


	15. prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for just. mentions of death and murder and all that
> 
> 20 min sprint i got addiction.. this is. for? or inspired by? dreams bd au shout outtt, its really not canon at all to what happens it it but. jeff be like I am going to sell my soul and be king now. 
> 
> prompt: [55] Today your kingdom was prophesized to crumble. Everything changes, but not quite how you thought.
> 
> also this collection is over 10k words now oh god

Today was the day. 

Jeff paced before the window, watching through the corner of his eye, the sunrise over a quiet kingdom, _ his. _ The room was quiet, only his footsteps filling the room, and it was driving him _ insane. _

He had become king to rule, to have influence. He wanted to make a difference. He didn’t sell his soul for _ this. _

Two months ago, a supposed prophet had come to the gates of the castle, a peasant girl with hair that hung around her shoulders like flames. Flames, that she prophesied would over take the kingdom in exactly two months time, on the first day of autumn. Flames that would claim this castle, claim _ his _life, as she lurched in the soldier’s hold towards Jeff.

She was delusional, clearly beyond help. They had her executed, mercifully. 

But when Jeff left that room, he saw Ian out of the corner of his eye, once again. 

And where he showed up was never any good. 

Jeff knew, the prophet girl must have been real. He didn’t know if she had sold her soul for it, if Ian had somehow instigated this coup, if he was offering his condolences in the weakest way he possibly could; but he knew the prophet girl told the truth.

And while he laughed it off to his court, and they made a couple innocent little jokes about how the country had decayed since he took his rule, which they wouldn’t _ dare _saying sincerely, he did what he could to prepare.

He had his soldiers scatter across the kingdom, hiding out in camps just out of town, or in homes, be they abandoned or not. He kept a constant eye on the borders, made sure communication between him and his troops was as quick as it could possibly be, and made sure that nobody knew. If there was any mention of the prophet girl in the towns, if there was any notion of revolution rustling among the people, his soldiers were ordered to _ handle it. _

And up until the first day of autumn, nothing seemed out of the ordinary just yet. Just that the king was out of bed early, pacing in front of the windows as the sun rose, waiting for what the prophet girl had promised. For the flames to rise up from the town, to swallow the kingdom. 

Only, that’s not exactly what happened. 

A storm rolled in, early in the afternoon, unprophesied. And it rained _ hard, _thunder booming and lightning striking, so much so that Jeff caught word of flooding, when he came down for his meal. Over his wine, he heard mentions of destruction, of infighting through the chaos. It didn’t surprise him much at all, but it wasn’t fire quite yet. Maybe the prophet girl really was delusional, and Ian was only there to pity her. Maybe he had done her a favor by putting her out of her misery so quickly.

And as the storm raged on, Jeff caught word of the chaos rising even higher than the waters, so much so that the military had been forced out of their camps and forced to get involved.

That the waters had risen along the walls of this very castle, but they were safer than anywhere in the kingdom for now. 

And Jeff wondered, if this is what the prophet girl had meant. If this is what her visions truly intended, even if she didn’t communicate it quite right. A _ firefight _would claim his kingdom. 

_ Maybe, _Jeff mused, as he sipped his wine.

And as the day went on, the storm continued, and Jeff caught word of the fighting getting out of control. Or arguably, very much_ under _control. That when this storm ended, they might not have many civilians left.

And Jeff was drunk enough at that point to find that funny.

This is what the prophet girl meant. A fire would claim his kingdom, and he’d be perfectly safe inside the walls of this castle. And it would claim his life, because he had already given it in order to rule. If there were none, or even _few _left to rule over, what did that make of him? Behind the mantle of king, he wasn’t_ anyone,_ anymore. 

And he was happy that he ordered the death of the prophet girl, because he didn’t need anyone else rubbing it in. 


	16. lonely, so he says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no tws for this one really but its just. set in hc they dead
> 
> 20 min sprint I kinda went insane with the wpm here sdfgh.. I kinda feel like I reuse a lot of the imagery from theoretically in this but. this time its jeff and its probably better fdjhgd
> 
> prompt: [126] Whilst walking your dog in the snow, you notice the tracks it leaves behind are human footprints.

It had happened again.

Again, again, and again, he joked about it all being some sort of _ repeat, _ but God, this really _ sucked. _

He was alone again. In a home that was once full of life, of activity, of his _ friends. _The only sign of life for miles in this frozen forest. Now, he was the only person for miles.

He had his dogs, and that was it. They weren’t lazy in the slightest; they were eager to go wherever Jeff went, when he checked the same chest for the millionth time for something he didn’t have, when he paced around the house like it was some ritual that would bring them all back. But the house was never bursting with life like it once had. His dogs sat when they were told. 

And even though he had been in this position before, he still didn’t know what to do. He still hadn’t built up any sort of strategy, when it came to living like this. When it came to trying to win, trying to break this cycle, when he was all alone.

Saying that he’s _alone_ feels like he’s lying to himself, just being _so_ pathetic and self pitying. So useless, that it’s truly a miracle of nature that he’s survived this long, so many times. He should have been the first to die.

But here he is, regardless. With his dogs, with this empty house, with the graves outside being buried in snow. With himself, with his own thoughts, as the wind howls outside. 

It’s picturesque, out here, or at least that’s what he thought when they first arrived. He saw all the glimmers shining off the icicles and all the evergreen trees, and thought that they could live here. Thought that it would be great, thought that they would have a chance.

But all he did was put himself into a hole. He had sat down in the deep snow by the tree and had fallen into a snowbank, and he was suffocating completely upside down.

That’s what it felt like, at least. His friends all got the mercy of dying to Endermen, or falling, or lava.

Or a creeper explosion. _ Yet again. _

But at least for now, if not for all that much longer, he’s alive. He needs more ender pearls, and he needs some god damn _ courage, _but he’s kept himself alive at the very least. He may be suffocating, but he’s held out for a while. He may be freezing to death, but he’s curled into himself so far that he’s managed to keep warm. 

There isn’t much he can do while putting off finding more Ender pearls. During the day, he’ll pace around the house, listen to the wind and the whines of his dogs, maybe cook up a porkchop if he feels like he deserves it. 

And he supposed he should walk them, sometimes. Gives them both something to do, and maybe it’ll give him the courage to get out of the house more. Maybe this adventure does have an end in sight, be that victory or just another repeat. If it isn’t purgatory in this stupid cabin, Jeff would welcome it with open arms.

So he took the dogs, told them all to stand up, and they follow him like they were lonely all this time. Like all their friends were dead and they were stuck living in a home haunted by their echoes, with their graves just outside. 

It’s funny how that works.

So he took them outside, let the brisk air wake him up a bit, and watched them bounce around in the snow like puppies. He watched the icicles forming slowly on the roof and on the branches nearby, and he admired the glimmers that reflect in the snow.

And for the first time in a while, even if it wasn’t particularly strong, he smiled.

They followed him around as he loops around the house, following a path that had been long buried by the snow. He looped around their farm, marveling a bit at how the crops are even alive in this cold, despite the fact that they’re growing incredibly slowly. He passed the cave behind their house, one that they- _he_ really should have plugged up by now, and one that still produced an array of ominous noises, but it was kind of funny now. He passed the graveyard, and didn’t see much of anything but white stacked on top of grey and brown. 

And then he came back to the graveyard, his dogs bouncing along in tow. He couldn’t look away. The signs were long buried, but he had memorized the order of the graves. And he stared, and he swallowed, and it felt like there was snow being shoveled down his throat. His eyes burned, from the wind and from the tears building up and threatening to freeze.

And he knew he never should have left the house.

His dogs continued to bounce around his feet, waiting eagerly for where they might journey next._ At least they're happy,_ Jeff thought.

And his gaze fell slowly to the ground, and he noticed that the tracks his dogs had left all around him looked… awfully _ human. _

And when he looked up, he thought he saw _ someone _in front of the graves, but it was just a glint off the snow, blinding him. 


	17. on purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man I wrote this a while ago and never posted it fhdfhfdj,, inspired by a post on tumblr that was like. I want somebody to tell me on purpose, on purpose I am going to care about you and. idk how exactly how I feel about this one but lets hit it

“If you’re going to tell me you love me again-”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Jeff rested his head against the brick wall, staring up at the stars in an attempt to keep from looking at Austin. It wasn’t particularly effective, as the shape of his body still lingered in his vision, forming itself in the dim stars over the city lights.

Jeff might have done so if Austin had just told him not to, but that was merely because the phrase itself was something so  _ new  _ to Jeff. It wasn’t his fault for wanting to use it fairly liberally.

“... I just…” Austin stammered, his voice coming out weakly, presumably staring at the same stars Jeff was. “I wanna… I wanna know why.”

“Why… Why I do?” Jeff asked, pulling his hoodie a bit closer to him as a mild breeze washed over him, but the chill from Austin’s words came across much colder.

“Yeah. It… It’s kinda stupid, but… I’ve gone my whole life without really understanding it. Love, or whatever- whatever word would better suit that, I don’t know. It just feels weird to say.”

“I think it’s supposed to be, at first at least.”

“Maybe,” Austin replied, with a hint of a chuckle in there, but it sounded simply  _ hollow.  _ “But it’s just… Are you supposed to be able to understand it? It’s… It’s a fall, isn’t it?”

The concept of the fall, that was the very center of it. The idea that love was sudden, unexpected and unstoppable, akin to the feeling of the air rushing up against you, seeing all the sights before inevitably hitting the ground. That was love, supposedly, and it was as beautiful as it was tragic, ill fated, violent. 

“You don’t really… get a choice in the matter. Just happens one day, suddenly you’re in love, with whoever random person like- smiles at you once on the bus, and that’s just it? Are you supposed to just- have no control over it, be tugged around by it and let it hurt you, over and over again? It doesn’t seem… fair.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Jeff murmured, refusing to tear his eyes away from the stars.

They formed something of a different image now, however. A door.

“I… You know what, I’ll just admit it, I’m kinda terrified of it. Being just… so weak to my own feelings and hurt constantly by them, and the idea that… Maybe someone doesn’t deserve my love, and I don’t deserve the love of someone else, and none of us get a  _ choice  _ in that matter. It just seems so  _ cruel  _ in that way, like the whole point is just- hurting. Hurting me, hurting us, I just…”

“... For me, it wasn’t exactly a fall.”

Jeff didn’t even have to look to see Austin’s expression, the way his eyebrows scrunched together, frowning with those puppy dog eyes shining brightly, and  _ God,  _ that was already a way of proving his point to himself.

That he did love the boy beside him. It was never really a question, but it left a certain warmth in his stomach, where a more painful feeling might have once resided. 

“... How so?”

“... I think it can be a choice, sometimes. When I first met you, it was… well, okay to be fair, I was pretty drawn in by how much you were yelling-”

“I sprained my freaking ankle, that wasn’t my fault!”

“I remember you being fine, but… when I first met you, it was a choice to come over there, to try and comfort you, even though you weren’t totally listening to me-”

“I  _ totally _ was.”

“Sure,” Jeff chuckled, finding his voice a bit stronger now than it was before. “But it was a choice, then, to keep hanging out around you, and… to start being your friend. And maybe there’s still a bit of that that’s out of our control, that’s not really… understandable, but… For me, I don’t think it was a fall.”

Jeff looked ever so slightly to his left, and caught Austin’s face in his peripheral, even that simply lighting him on fire. 

“When I think about it too hard, I kinda start to feel like a machine, but… When I met you, and started being your friend, and got closer and closer to you, I knew what I was doing. I already loved you, I think, in that platonic way, y’know? But it was a choice to keep following that, for me at least. I started loving you, and haven’t stopped loving you, because… I just wanted to.”

Austin was quiet for a moment, processing, like both were nothing but machines.

“That’s… just as hard to prove, really. Don’t know why I deserve that.”

“... I don’t think it’s about being deserving, or worthiness, or whatever you wanna call it. But it’s a choice I made, I like to think. I didn’t fall in love with you, I just started… seeing glimpses of it around me, and chased it. I walked into it, fully aware of what I was doing, trying to understand at least  _ most  _ of what was around me, but still knowing that… this is what I wanted. Maybe love, who you love and why isn’t  _ exactly  _ a choice, but… I want to love you on purpose. That’s what I try to do.”

Austin went quiet again, and Jeff could practically feel him searching for meaning in the stars, in the city lights below them.

“... Is it worth it? Loving… on purpose.”

Jeff smiled, looking to his side and seeing Austin in full view, all the emotions building up in his eyes, the curve of his lips and the way his hair was tossed in the night breeze, and felt as if he had made the right choice. Like there was never any question. 

He extended his hand, and Austin took it.

“I think so.”

Austin sighed when he heard that, closing his eyes.

“Maybe… Maybe that fall, that pain and that fear is still a part of it to some degree,” Jeff continued. “But it’s more than that. Already, for me, it’s more than that. Guess… I don’t know, that’s probably some fundamentally human thing, some inherent worth thing, that we’re more than that, that there’s more in each of us, worth digging deeper into. I may not know the true extent of it yet, but… I do want this.”

“And you want it… on purpose.”

“Mhmm.”

Jeff looked back at the stars, finding Austin’s form in the sky once more, as the stars grew dimmer and he struggled to see much of anything in the darkness.

“I… I love you too. On purpose.”

Jeff chuckled again, squeezing Austin’s hand.

“Yeah. Same.”


	18. vibrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck it hanamai projection time
> 
> inspired by me listening to marika hackman a lot earlier today and [this](https://hiddenblockforever.tumblr.com/post/189894087469/shimmerangels-when-jenny-slate-said-and-the) post I think about a lot,, we are gay on this good Saturday
> 
> also this is mostly unedited its almost 1am and I am blind ffgsdsj,, just going thru it rn 😔💞
> 
> also also this was not even a sprint fhgsfd I just didn't wanna post it on its own f

Mai had always found her emotions to be unpredictable. 

Perhaps she was vibrant; fiery and intense, a hopeless romantic, maybe even naïve. She could live with that definition, and she wouldn’t deny any part of it. And she didn’t mind it, mostly; there was strength in it, and it allowed for most of the confidence she relied upon. Better to feel than to feel nothing at all, she’d often tell herself.

But when it came to Hana, often things were… overwhelming. 

Every tiny detail, everything Mai noticed about her when Hana went about her day, every word and every strand of bubblegum pink hair; be it perfectly placed like an ethereal statue, or wild and mussed like Hana had the power of a thousand storms flowing through her veins, breathtaking either way. All of it was captivating to Mai, bringing her to her knees. 

Hana was more than a main character, to whatever story she was living out; more than a main character in _ Mai’s _ life, more than a static figure, _ more than a friend. _She was more than human, it felt like; angelic and supernatural, a goddess carrying the awe inspiring power of natural disasters and the most delicate of feelings, of cherry blossoms and feather light touches. And Mai lived in reverence of her, every day. 

But at the same time, she knew Hana was human, just the same as her. As she went from day to day, they were still friends, _ best friends; _ talking and doing stuff and _ just joking around _ was never the problem. That was always the easiest part of Mai’s day, the _ best. _She wasn’t swept off her feet and buried whenever Hana accidentally bumped into her, wasn’t struck or paralyzed by her lighting whenever she met Hana’s eyes. Day to day, everything was normal.

But it was when Mai shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have noticed, when her mind should have been elsewhere; that was when Hana always blindsided her, burrowed her way into Mai’s consciousness and turned all her organs inside out. 

It was kind of funny, really. Mai knew, she supposed, that it was always her own mind that she was weakest to in the end. 

Walking, talking, going out to eat was never the problem. But early mornings, looking over at Hana as she slept or refused to wake up, the way she curled in on herself in her sleep and that _ hair _ that was imprinted so deeply in Mai’s mind, that she could imagine it in perfect detail without even thinking, without _ wanting to. _The glances from afar, across the classroom or the lunch table, the little moments where Hana’s hand would brush against hers. Those, those were the moments that destroyed Mai. 

And the moments where she was alone; in the bathroom getting ready, at volleyball practices, in the classes she didn’t share with Hana, staring up at the ceiling in the same room they shared, but when Hana was dead asleep or simply absent- her mind would run. 

Mai was vibrant, and emotional, she knew very well. And of course, she had an active imagination, one plagued by romanticisms and concepts that the mere _ idea _of can bring her to tears, leave her heart racing, or twist an uncomfortable knot in her stomach that she wouldn’t be able to shake for hours. 

And so, her mind would often wander to Hana, even and _ especially _ when she wasn’t there. Mai didn’t attempt to stop many of her thoughts, no matter how contextually questionable they may have been; she saw herself walking the fields with Hana, holding hands, and going out on the town together, hitting every shop and semi-interesting fixture. She saw herself at sushi with Hana, hands balled into fists under the table, wondering what to order and worrying if Hana was going to judge her, but being slammed with a massive wave of _ calm the heck down _ every time she looked at Hana’s face, smiling and carefree. She saw Hana’s smile, often; and her eyes, and her hair, and her glasses on Mai’s bedside, and the entire artistic concept of _ her. _

She saw herself kissing Hana, a lot. She saw herself dancing clumsily and singing loud enough to hurt her voice, but it was with _ Hana, _ so it was all okay. She saw herself proposing to Hana, and she saw them getting married; Hana in a long, dazzling blue dress, like an ancient, eternal river, and Mai in a suit of armor as she escorted her princess to the next chapter of their life together. She saw their vows to each other, made on the beach at sunset, and she saw all of their friends and family watching them proudly. She saw the two of them living together, on a little cottage up on top of a mountain, with the smell of cinnamon filling their home and with _ like seven dogs, _and one grumpy, weirdly buff looking cat. 

She saw happiness; a resolution to all her yearning and aching.

Which was funny, because she didn’t find herself to be all that unhappy in the present.

She wasn’t exactly lonely; she had all the hugs and shoulder punches a girl could ask for. She was already decently affectionate with Hana, maybe even more so than most best friends were. Those thoughts seldom crossed her mind when she spent time with Hana; an occasional spark of unease and _ ache _would light every so often, but it would fade almost immediately. 

Hana was Mai’s best friend, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world. She was eternally grateful that Hana was in her life, that she was such a defining factor of it, and to matter to Hana in return. She was elated to exist in Hana’s presence, genuinely. 

And yet, her thoughts refused to leave her alone. 

The potential of romance was strange when it came to Hana. It wasn’t like the usual crush Mai was prone to, where she’d fall head over heels and then be over it after about a month. Hana was a perpetual attraction, a feeling that was otherworldly and mystical, much like the rest of Hana. She haunted Mai in some moments and spared her in others, but almost never let herself be forgotten about. The concept of a romantic relationship was bewitching; Mai had absolutely no problem with the idea of it, but she had no idea if it was really feasible, if she really wanted and _ needed _it, or if something was just a little bit off in her head. She felt almost as if Hana might have felt the same way; the way they were so affectionate with each other, the smiles and little glances Mai would occasionally catch, her willingness to do anything for Mai just as she was willing to do anything for Hana; but she had no idea what that truly meant.

All of the uncertainty felt like it was tearing her up inside, but she didn’t know what to do about it. It was livable, she was pretty sure, anyway. Everyone gets occasionally crushed by sudden moments of loneliness and despair sometimes, she was certain of that fact. And she was fine the rest of the time, whenever she was with Hana; it was only in hindsight that she wondered if something was missing. The thought of kissing her, of tracing her cheeks and the line of her jaw, of running her fingers through her hair, was seldom even considered when Mai found herself presented with the chance. Even when it did, it came only in flickers, that she could easily suppress. When asked, at least a good 75% of the time, she’d say she wouldn’t want to change a thing about what she had with Hana. 

And yet. She knew she was vibrant, emotional, unpredictable. There was only so much she could understand about herself, without a therapist to talk to, at least. She could live with the thoughts.

Even when they were overwhelming. When she glanced at Hana through the corner of her eye and spotted a blinding, glistening goddess, and when she thought of Hana every time she saw the color pink. When she found herself willing to give up anything for Hana, her time and her academic integrity, even her _ life _if she were given the chance. When she wished she could hug Hana and hold onto her forever, when she wished she could carry Hana everywhere she went so that she would never have to suffer the trouble of walking. When she wished to kiss her and hold her so tightly that they would merge, that they would become like two overlapping images, that Mai could become her body and her bones, and never be separated again. 

Even then, Mai was… maybe 60% sure that she was okay. 

And even if she wasn’t, she didn’t think it really mattered. She had Hana. She didn’t know what exactly she was going to do, if they would become romantically involved or if they would remain as they were, if she really wanted what her thoughts described and if she could really live without it; but as long as she had Hana, she felt like she would be okay. 

Even if Hana didn’t want romance with Mai, she doubted that such a confession would even make a dent in the armor of their bond. She didn’t know if it was even possible for Hana to love her the way Mai wanted in the context of her story; considering the nature of Mai’s thoughts, maybe it wasn’t- but as long as Hana stayed, Mai had her ticket to heaven. Mai knew she was vibrant, ardent, but ultimately, tough.

It was only the thought of where she would be if she had never met Hana, if she didn’t have her _ best friend, _ that truly scared her. 


	19. you are not immune to sirens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im back :orb:
> 
> im sad its been so long but hello,,, this was supposed to be a 20 minute sprint where like,, there were 3 of us all doing the same prompt, but this took me so long to finish bc writing is hard :orb: but its here now pog!!
> 
> prompt is from deepwaterwritingprompts on tumblr, "There was music coming from deep, deep inside the cave. I recognized the tune."

There was a voice coming from the caves. 

Dean wasn’t sure how long he spent just… standing there, in front of the entrance, tightly gripping the sword by his side and listening to the voice. Probably, much too long. He didn’t know what he was listening to- or, _ no, _ he knew quite well what it was- but he didn’t _ understand. _ He knew what he was hearing was _ impossible, _that was his problem. 

_ “Come all you pretty fair maids- whoever you may be…” _

This world, they woke up on a lovely little coastline- much to Dean’s delight, because the past couple seasons had all been spent in pretty miserable weather. Snowy, bitter tundras, excessively thick and shadowy dark oak forests- even the plain grasslands they usually settled down in could get tough when it started raining, and they certainly got boring after a while. 

Luckily, there was a birch forest nearby, but they ended up staying near the coastline- and _ thank God _for that, because Dean was starting to get worried he was going crazy, in those more depressing, sunlight deprived homes. He had missed the sea, too- There, he felt like he was at his happiest. 

But, of course, there were still downsides to living on the coastline. The first big cave system they found was mostly flooded, and they hadn’t bothered exploring much past the first cavern due to the inconvenience, although it certainly seemed like it continued down for a while. But although Dean’s interest was more than piqued, and despite the fact that the cave was very much picturesque- with the calm pools, the natural light streaming in through the holes in the ceiling, the ever present dripping from above- it really wasn’t worth the effort, so he was left to pine over the thought of exploration alone. 

And yet, by some strange twist of fate, there he was once again; standing in front of the entrance, wondering what he should do, and asking himself just how _ stupid _ he really was. He was worried about going crazy over the past seasons, but maybe he was destined to go crazy anyway. Because this just… wasn’t _ possible. _ He’d say it was a trap, or something, but he didn’t think that Todd would even bother to do something like this. Todd, as mysterious and passive aggressive as he was, wasn’t necessarily one for direct sabotage, to Dean’s knowledge. And definitely, not like _ this. _ This was too personal, _ way _too far, it…

It just wasn’t _ possible. _

It couldn’t be real, couldn’t be fake, and Dean wasn’t supposed to go into the caves at all- but…

_ “Who love a jolly sailor, that plows the raging sea…” _

He sighed, loosening his grip on the handle of his sword for only a moment, before squeezing it once again. 

And he came to the conclusion that _ yeah, he really was stupid enough for this. _

He took no more than two steps into the cave, but the air inside it already seemed _ chilled, _ enough to make him shiver. And almost instantly, the quality of the sound grew sharper, echoing louder as it bounced off the stone, burrowing deeper and deeper into Dean’s mind, to the point that he couldn’t even _ try _ to deny it any longer.

It went without saying, honestly, that he recognized the voice. Somewhat nasally, dry, but mellow and sweetly gentle. There was a distinctly _ Texan _ sort of accent on certain words, a slight whistling sound in other places, and even wobbly at times, as if the voice was uncertain- or emotional. But above all, it was so, _ so _ very _ familiar _to Dean.

_ “While up aloft in storm, from me his absence mourn…” _

Even saying the name to himself felt like it might ruin him, rip him apart from the inside out and leave him face down in a puddle; but he knew exactly what it was, so deep down inside of himself that he couldn’t ignore it. 

It was Mcjones. He knew it was. And that, exactly, was what made it so_ impossible. _

Mcjones was… gone, to put it most simply. He hadn’t seen him for _ what, _ three or four seasons at that point? And he knew that when a regular like him vanishes like _ that, _ especially someone who was there from the very beginning and was as _ experienced _ as him _ \- _ and someone as _ tired _ as him, as utterly exhausted as he was when Dean last saw him- he knew, they all knew, that their chances of ever seeing him again were… _ low. _ In this place, at least. Dean liked to consider himself an optimist, and he didn’t want to say he’d _ never _see him again, but…

He knew, at least, that if Mcjones were to come back, it would _ not _ be like this. This had to be _ way _too dramatic for Mcjones’ tastes, and no matter how much Dean teased him and begged him to, Mcjones didn’t sing. Not when he knew anyone else was around to hear it, at least. If Mcjones wanted to come back, he would have just woken up alongside them at the beginning of the season, and…

_ “And firmly pray arrive the day, he’s never more to roam…” _

Dean was certain that if Mcjones knew that if his… _ image _was going to be used like this, he would have never agreed to it.

And so, this didn’t make any sense at all. The only option that actually added up was that he had to be going crazy, but he couldn’t say he believed that. This felt too _ real_; he knew he wasn’t dreaming from the way his heart was pounding, from the way he was paying such close attention to his own breathing, and from how his hand was cramping from holding his sword so tightly. And so, the only way to really find out was… to follow the voice.

And he knew how _ stupid _that idea was, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

He recognized the song, too; a _literal_ _siren song. _

Dean stepped forward, heading deeper into the cave, carefully walking along the bridges they made above the water. There was a part of himself that resisted the very _ idea _ of this, kicked and screamed and told him that he was _ such a fucking idiot, _ and that he needed to _ get out, now, _but…

_ “My heart is pierced by cupid...” _

He didn’t know why he didn’t listen to that part of himself. It felt like he physically _ couldn’t _ stop. As if there was a leash around his neck, pulling him deeper inside. And he knew that just _ couldn’t _ be good, _ obviously, _ but… _ fuck, _he just wanted to know. 

He needed to know what was happening, what was _ wrong, _ why he was hearing _ his _voice-

_“I disdain all glittering gold..."_

And if, _ if, just maybe- _he’d be able to finally see him again.

As he approached the end of the first cavern, staring into the inky tunnel the voice came from, he took out and lit his torch, holding it high and away from himself. The orange light showed him a little bit of the way, but the shadows were still too overpowering. And even despite the fire, he still felt like he was _ freezing. _

And with that, he stepped off the end of the bridge they had made. The water was only knee deep here, but he had to imagine it would only get deeper the further in he went- and he really couldn’t tell at _ all _ where exactly the voice was coming from. 

But he wasn’t really… _ scared, _like he knew he probably should have been. He didn’t think he was scared, at least. Just nervous, and mostly confused, but… excited. Numb, maybe?

Really, the word he was thinking of was _ hypnotized- _or if not that, helplessly curious. But neither of those terms came to his mind.

_ “There is nothing can console me…” _

The further in he went, the louder the voice became, the echo almost _ deafening. _ The water grew deeper, up to his thighs, then his waist- and soon enough, the water actually began _ pushing _him towards the voice. As he found himself unable to think about anything other than the voice, any thoughts he had of turning back were silenced, and eventually rendered unfeasible just by the sheer force of the water pushing him forward.

And eventually, after wading through the dark tunnel for a while, the cave opened back up; almost completely pitch black, despite the light of his torch still barely hanging on, and the water was nearly up to his chest. But there was one beam of light coming in from the ceiling, right in the center of the cavern; shedding light on what was essentially an island, a large mossy rock, acting almost like a _ throne, _ for-

_ “But my jolly sailor bold.” _

Dean didn’t have long to revel in the sight of him, before the gravel ceiling above them collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L
> 
> also throwback to. that one picture of dean on halloween in a sailor costume fhgdgfh I was thinking about that while writing okay 🚶


End file.
